


Give me directions

by ClaireScott



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Melancholy, Romance, spoiler season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You go on a photo excursion and stumble over a biker in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salad spinner

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

It’s early Sunday morning, very early. It’s the hour of the day where the party people have already crawled between the sheets and the honest residents of Charming are still sleeping, dreaming. It’s the hour when even the thugs, the criminals and all the other bad boys are resting between the legs of another random whore. All is quiet, all is peaceful. The perfect time for catching a bit of the stunning atmosphere of abandoned industrial buildings. The forfeiting structures have this special magic in the warm but still reluctant rays of the rising sun. You love it since the day you made the first trip to an abandoned building with your college photo class years ago.  
You park your car on the backside of an old canning factory, scanning your surroundings for signs of human existence. Nothing. Good. You get outside the car, grabbing your backpack and the Nikon, and don’t bother with locking the doors. You take a few pictures of the old plates, the backyard and the building before you’re heading to the rusty backdoor with the “Danger! No entry”-plate. It’s hard work to get the door open, and you take a deep breath as you finally managed it. You’re bending down, grabbing a brick nearby to prevent the door to thunk shut. After a careful look around you set the first steps in the dark, former office. A door on the other side of the room leads to the factory floor, another to the break room. You open the door to the factory floor, stepping carefully inside. The floor is concrete, so there’s no danger for you to fall in a hole in the floor or to hurt yourself on broken floorboards. Enjoying the silence and the early daylight streaming in through the broken roof you take the first photos, circling the old, rusty machines and the left-behinds of party kids, homeless persons and junkies. Someone stringed wine bottles neatly on the old assembly line and you take a few photos of the rays of sunlight reflecting on the green glass bottles.  
After a look at your watch you decide to go further in the hall, where more beautiful motives hold out for their discovery. You enter the second production line and focus on the old plates on the machines.  
“Pull red alarm cord in emergency only”, you read.  
The red alarm cord is long gone, you guess, because there is none in sight. You’re turning around looking at the camera, adjusting the wide angle for some photos of the whole production line. As you look up again you see a chair standing in the middle of the aisle. And bound to this chair is a man, dead or sleeping or passed out.  
Totally frozen you’re listening but it’s all quiet. You feel for your phone in your backpack, wondering if you should call the police. Hesitatingly you tiptoe nearer, noticing the blood on his face, and his heaving chest. He’s alive and he’s battered badly. He’s got tattoos on his scalp, a short mohawk haircut and a leather vest of a motorcycle club. You heard about them, of the Sons of Anarchy, and what you heard was nothing good. Shit. This is fucking bad shit you’re in and you know you should go. You’re in deadly danger. But you can’t leave this guy here. He will die, that’s for sure. What now? Storming out to the car, driving two miles, calling the police? Or staying and try to get him outta here?  
“Shit!” You whisper soundless and poke him hesitantly on his shoulder.  
He flinches, making a groaning sound, but his eyes stay closed. Once more you poke him and he whispers, his voice deadly and really threatening: “I’ll kill you, motherfucker. Slow and painful.”  
“Sir,” you say low, frowning about yourself. Sir? What the fuck? This isn’t some FBI agent in an Armani suit or the Lord I-give-a-goddamn-fuck-of-Saint-Elsewhere.  
His eyes fly open and he tenses: “Who the fuck are you? Watcha doin’ here?”  
“Doesn’t matter. Are you in trouble?”  
God, what a stupid question. But nobody ever explained you what to say in such a shitty situation.  
“No. It’s a Tupperware party going on in here. I’m waiting for the salad spinners.” He rolls his eyes and takes a look over his shoulders, searching for the guy – or guys – who hold him hostage.  
“Very funny. So I guess you’re not deadly wounded if you can think of salad spinners.”  
“Yeah. Not deadly wounded, but deadly pissed off. Did someone see you come in?”  
“No. Nobody’s here.”  
“Okay. Can you loosen the ties? They will be back soon. And we should better be outta here when they return.”  
“Who are they?” You ask, working on the ties, freeing his hands.  
“Doesn’t matter. Got a car outside?” He rubs his wrists and stretches his arms.  
“Yes.” You nod and bend down to free his ankles. “How long you’ve been in there?”  
“Around midnight, I guess.” Now his ankles are free he gets up, grabbing your arm and pulling you with him. “Come on, hurry up, girl!”  
You’re running to the dark office – you run, he hobbles real fast – through the open door as the guy stops, gesturing with his finger to his mouth. You’re listening closely, hearing the big folding gate at the front side being open with a loud, disturbing jar. A minute earlier and they’d caught you. You stumble to your car, tossing backpack and camera inside and fumbling for your keys in your jeans pocket. Inside you hear some agitated voices and finally you manage to get the key in the ignition lock.  
“Slow. No hurry. If they hear us, they’ll follow,” the guy says and you nod.  
Carefully you hit the gas and you leave the estate of the old canning factory nearly at a snail’s pace. Once you hit the road he commands: “Step on it, girl. Drive on the highway.”  
You nod and take a nervous look at the rear view mirror.  
“No one’s following us. It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath and rubs over his scalp. “Hey, uhm, thanks.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
“I’m Juice.”  
“Y/N.”  
“Uh, what were you doin’ there?”  
“Photos. I’m a photographer.”  
He nods and falls silent, closing his eyes, clearly exhausted and in pain.  
“Got a cell phone I may borrow for a call?” He asks after you drove on the highway.  
“Yeah. In the backpack. Help yourself. There’s also a bottle of water if you’re thirsty.” The street is empty no one around, no other cars in sight, so you relax a bit.  
“Thank you,” he answers, holding a painful groan back as he turns on the seat.  
“Where can I drop you?” You ask as you pass the first exit to Charming. “St. Thomas? Police Station?”  
“No, not in this life. At Teller Morrow’s if you don’t mind.”  
“Never heard of. Give me directions?”  
“’Course.”  
He gives you a broad smile and winks, fumbling your phone out of the backpack.  
You see his concentrated face, his finger hovering over the display and chuckle: “Problems remembering phone numbers?”  
“Yeah, but I think I got it.”  
It’s silent again and, after a minute, he speaks: “It’s me, Juice. I’m out and on my way back to the clubhouse – I’m fine – Yeah, see you there in 20.” 

About 15 minutes later you stop in front of Teller Morrow and give him a smile.  
“Here we are. If you ever need a salad spinner again call me, I borrow you mine. No need to go to these Tupperware Rip-offs.”  
He chuckles, holding his ribs, takes a deep breath and says: “Thanks. Really. Listen, uhm, I guess I owe you at least a drink and a dinner. Mind giving me your number? I’ll call you when I’m presentable again.”  
“I’m ... I’m in a relationship and ...” Yeah, with this fornicating asshole, the master of jealousy and double standards himself, you think and see his bright smile fading. “But ... but yeah, when I think it over I guess you owe me a dinner.”  
“Good. Just as a thank you, it’s not a date dinner or so.”  
You nod and reach for the glove compartment, inhaling his scent, dominated by sweat and blood, but he still smells fucking good. You find a notepad and a pen, scribbling your phone number on it. You hand him the paper, he smiles and you can only imagine how damn handsome this guy must be when he’s not bruised and battered.  
“Okay. I’ll call you. Thanks again.”  
“Bye, Juice.”

He’ll never call, you now this for sure. And as you park your car in front of the apartment house you live in, seeing the still closed blinds of your apartment, knowing Frank’s still sleeping, you sigh. At least you were out photographing without him noticing. No argument. That’s good.


	2. Angelica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You win a new friend. Angelica.

Three weeks later, Saturday afternoon, you’re sitting in your kitchen, studying the advertisements in the newspaper, searching for a new apartment. You want to move out so badly, you want to end this shitty relationship based on lies and jealousy. Since you moved in with Frank a year ago he about-faced. He cheats on you on a regular basis, you know this. At the same time he watches over you with a pain-in-the-ass-like jealousy, threatening you for months now. You guess that your first getting beat up experience isn’t so far away in the future. So you have to go.  
Frank’s lying on the couch, drinking a beer and watching some sports, while you scribble some phones numbers on a notepad. You flinch as your cell phone rings. Unknown number. Mhm.  
“Hi”, you answer the call, expecting some cold call of an insurance agent or something like this.  
“Hi. It’s Juice. Remember the guy from the canning factory?”  
“Yeah, I remember, of course. How you doin’?”  
“Better, thanks. So, I still owe you a dinner. Do you already have plans for tomorrow?”  
“No,” you answer, smiling. “I haven’t.”  
“Who’s on the phone?” Franks asks, coming into the kitchen.  
You say the first name which is coming into your mind: “Angelica.”  
“Who the fuck is Angelica?” Frank furrows his brows and you take a deep breath.  
“New co-worker. Do you mind if I go on talking to her?” Your voice sounds deeply irritated and you stand up, leaving the kitchen, locking yourself in the bathroom.  
“You good?” Juice asks and you sigh: “Yeah, thanks. So, uhm, tomorrow evening?”  
“Yeah, if you won’t get into trouble?”  
“No.” Hope so.  
“Did you ever ride on a bike?”  
“No.”  
“So, what about me giving you a lift, we’ll make a ride and have dinner, maybe at Maceba’s?”  
“Sounds nice, but, uhm ... I guess it is better we meet at Maceba’s.”  
“Because I’m Angelica?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I see. Okay. Tomorrow at 7?”  
“Okay. Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”  
“Why is it you have to lock yourself in the bathroom chatting with Angelica?” Frank shouts from outside the door and you whisper a good-bye before ending the call. 

Sunday at 6:50 pm you’re standing outside of Maceba’s waiting for Juice. The sidewalk is crowded and a lot of tourists and families searching for a nice place for an enjoyable Sunday dinner.  
“Hey,” a voice says on your right and you turn around.  
“Hi,” you answer, smiling, “Nice to meet you. You look much better than last time.”  
He gives you a broad, fantastic looking smile: “Thanks. You look very good yourself, just as on the day we met. Wanna go in? You’re hungry?”  
“Yes, thank you.”  
You follow him into the restaurant and he greets the barkeeper like an old friend. Juice leads you to a table in a booth and sighs deeply in the moment he sits.  
“So, do you prefer wine, cocktails or beer?” He asks and you shake your head: “Just water, thanks.”  
He nods and orders your drinks as the waiter comes by.  
“First things first,” he smiles, “may I borrow your cell phone?”  
You laugh and hand it to him, curious what he’s up to. While he’s busy with your phone you take your time to watch him. All the bruises are gone, but a little cut at his right eyebrow is still visible. He’s clothed like three weeks before, black shirt, grey pants, and the leather vest. His head is freshly shaved, no mohawk anymore, he’s bald and his scalp tattoos gleaming in the light. You look over his hands, his arms, scanning the tats there. He hands your phone back and you ask: “What did you do?”  
“Wrote my number into your phone book.”  
You smile, scrolling to “J”. Jake, Jane, Jasmine, Joe, Jones M.D., Joni, Jupiter Pizza, Karen. No Juice.  
“Uhm, where?”  
“Try A. Angelica.” He winks and gives you a smile.  
You scroll to A and there it is. The first contact in your phone book is now “Angelica”, not Ashley anymore.  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome. So, what’s with this fucker who won’t let you chat with a friend?”  
“I dunno. He changed, a lot. No idea what’s happened. He was totally different by the time we fell in love. And now ... it’s all fucked up. I’m trying to find a new apartment. I want to break-up and move out. But it’s not that easy. When I’m finally able to make a call without him listening, the apartments are already rented. I’m always too late.” You give a shrug and sigh.  
“I see. He’s jealous and he doesn’t want you to go.”  
“Yeah.”  
Juice nods and hands you the menu: “If you want me to, I’ll help you to find an apartment. I can also help moving out. We’ve got a truck at TM I can borrow all the time.”  
You don’t want to bother him with your personal misery, you’re willing to enjoy this dinner and have a good time, so you answer: “Thanks. Uhm, do you mind changing the subject? I really don’t wanna talk about it.”  
“Yeah, no problem. But: One last question, okay?”  
“Go on.”  
“Does he hit you?” Juice is frowning, looking very serious.  
“No, he doesn’t. I swear.” Not yet. But you keep this for yourself. You manage a smile and clear your throat: “Tell me about you. How you ended up in the old canning factory for example.”  
“Uh, long story,” he smiles.  
Juice tells you a bit about the club and his personal background. You have lots of fun and as you finished your really excellent dinner you like him very much. He’s a good guy with a golden heart. That is what your heart tells you. Just as you tell him about your work a shadow falls over the table and Franks drops on one of the free chairs.  
“Well, look who’s here. If this isn’t the charming Angelica! I’m so pleased to meet you,” he says, his tone threatening and pissed off enough for a whole biker gang.  
He pats on Juice’s back before he grabs him, pressing his fingers in Juice’s shoulder. Juice doesn’t even flinch. He gives you a “Really? This asshole?”-look before turning around and facing Frank.  
“Hi,” Juice says calmly, “I’m Juice. And you better take your hands off. Now.”  
“Frank,” you stand up and place your hand gently on his wrist. “Don’t make a scene, okay? We only had dinner.”  
He loosens his hold on Juice’s shoulder, just to grab your hand: “You’re ready here. You’ll drive straight home and we’ll have a conversation about lies and cheating, Y/N.”  
“The voice of experience says, right?” You sass but his growl makes you shut up.  
Frank pulls you with him and you take a look over your shoulder. Juice still sits at the table, arms on the table top, watching you. He gestures “I call you” to you before you leave the restaurant behind Frank. 

Three weeks later you’re even ready to move in with your mom again, just to leave this hell you’re in behind. Frank’s more controlling than ever and on this Saturday morning he did it. He checked your phone, finding two missed calls from “Angelica” and a message saying “Call me. Night and day. Whenever you need me.”  
He’d hit you. Twice. Now you’ve got a black eye, a bruised cheek and you’re homeless. You’ll never ever go back to his apartment. Shit. Now you're searching in your phone book for anyone you can stay with for a few nights.  
The hallway at St. Thomas where a nurse had placed you is quiet and you hear the sound of heavy boots coming nearer. The emergency room is busy and crowded, a lot of police officers sneaking around. The nurse had asked you if you want to speak to one of them, report an offense. Your answer was negative and so cliché you feel embarrassed for yourself. You mumbled something about a staircase and an accident. She didn’t ask more and left you alone. Still scrolling through your phone book you see a pair of heavy boots standing in front of you.  
“Hey,” Juice says and you make mistake No. 261 in this month: You look up.  
“Shit!” He hisses, “Frank?”  
You shake your head, standing up.  
“What stair did you tumble down, honey?” A massive older man with grey curls asks.  
“Or did you hit a door by accident?” Another of Juice brother’s asks. It’s a guy with two long scars on both cheeks.  
“Go on, I’ll meet you later. I have to deal with this,” Juice says to his companions and takes your hand in his. “You’re in pain, Y/N?”  
“Call when you need backup,” a tall blond guy says, patting Juice on the back, and they vanish around the next corner.  
“No, no it’s okay, really.” You whisper unable to look him in the eyes. "It looks much worse than it is. It hardly hurts.”  
“Did you see a doctor already?”  
“Yeah. I’m waiting for x-ray. But I don’t think that he ... that something is broken.”  
“So, what now?”  
“Dunno. I’m moving out, I guess.”  
“Forget the ‘I guess’. You’re moving out. Is Frank at your apartment?”  
“No,” Frank answers right behind Juice, “He’s here. And he wants you to take your greasy fingers of his girl.”  
Juice doesn’t move an inch, locking his gaze with yours.  
“Are you deaf, asshole? Take your fingers of my woman.”  
“Juice, maybe it’s better when ...”  
You try to elude Juice’s grip, but he shakes his head, mouthing “No”. Frank’s coming nearer, standing right behind Juice, and grabbing his shoulder. Juice closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath, before turning around and hitting Frank right in the face. He stumbles back, holding his bleeding nose and roars in pain.  
“He can have your x-ray appointment. And while he’s getting his bloody nose vetted we’re packing your stuff.”  
With his arm around your shoulders Juice leads you to the exit, to his bike.  
“We’re driving to TM, borrowing the van. Tonight you’ll be out, out of his apartment and his life.”  
“Okay,” you say because he doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood for a deeper discussion.  
“We’ll find you an affordable motel room, okay?”  
You nod again, holding still as he – carefully not to touch your cheek – puts a helmet on your head.  
“Thank you, Juice,” you say, fighting for a smile, “but ...”  
“Uh-uh,” he answers, shaking his head, “no but’s.”


	3. Feeling save

Three months later you’ve moved into a new apartment and Frank is history. You meet Juice about two times a week, having still no idea where this way you choose will lead you. You know you’re acting reluctant, hesitating. Juice already noticed – and feels bad about – the fact that you only agree to meet him in public. You go for dinners or for a coffee in your morning break when Juice is nearby.  
The club Juice’s a member of has a terrible reputation, rumors about arms trade, drugs and procuration going around, and you were an eye witness of the violence Juice is able to. Not only he broke Frank’s nose without even blinking – three weeks later Frank visited you at work, threatening you, making a scene. Two days after his visit he was found mangled and battered in his apartment. He had eight bones fractured, a concussion and lost three teeth.  
So: Is the choice between Frank and Juice a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea? Between a rock and a hard place?  
Sure, you don’t know who attacked Frank in his apartment. You felt the urge to ask Juice if it was him or the Sons, but you decided that you don’t wanna know. And Juice didn’t waste one word about Frank. Just like he hadn’t a clue about what had happened to him.  
It’s not that you’re actually afraid of Juice, no. That’s not the problem. He’s sweet and acts as gentleman-like as a biker can, even on this terrible biker party he invited you to. You still shudder thinking of yesterday. You came to the already crowded club house, and the first thing you experienced was a crow eater, watching your jeans and the hoodie with flaunting disdainfulness.  
“The prayer group is three doors down the road, honey,” she said and Juice told her to shut up and get a life.  
First it’s been quite okay, you talked for over an hour with an older guy named Wayne, a sheriff. But after Wayne said his good-byes, you watched drug use and make-outs. Juice talked to one of his brothers about some motorcycle stuff you didn’t understand so you had plenty of time to watch some live porn at the pool table and Juice’s friend named Happy making out with a crow-eater right beside you. In the moment she was down on her knees to suck him dry you had enough. Staring at the table top you thought about what Juice could possibly want from you. Sinking down on your knees in public and blowing him? No. No, you couldn’t see him this way. You told Juice you wanted to go home and he was a sweetheart about it, as always.  
“Not your kind of party, huh?” He asked and placed a kiss on your temple. “I already know the answer but I ask anyway: Want me to bring you home?”  
“No, it’s okay,” you answered, feeling bad for it. “Uhm, Juice?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Would you like to go to the movies with me?”  
“Hell, yeah, I want. Tomorrow?”  
“Okay. Pick a movie, Juice. I’m good with everything.”  
His smile was broad and genuine, like he’d really look forward to a movie date.  
  
  
And now you’re here, with Juice, in this nearly empty movie theater. He picked a damn bloody horror movie and hell yeah, it works exactly as he had planned. Ten minutes after the movie started you’ve grabbed his hand. Now thirty minutes are over and you’re sitting almost on his lap. You hear him chuckle near your ear and he places a kiss on your temple.  
“I’d protect you,” he whispers, pulling you even closer, “every time, against which monster may come, babe.”  
He holds you close and damn if this doesn’t feel good. He smells fantastic, he’s warm and muscular, his right hand rubbing your back soothingly, the fingers of his left hand intertwined with yours. He chuckles every time you flinch or squeak a bit, clearly enjoying himself. The movie’s nearly over as he nuzzles his face at your neck and starts kissing you, little kisses all over your neck and your cheek.  
“Juice,” you whisper, melting against him. “The monster isn’t dead already. You said you would protect me.”  
“Oh,” he sighs, “sorry. I got carried away.” He gives you his killer smile, his eyes shining with joy.  
And you’re lost. All your concerns don’t matter anymore. You shift on his lap and place a soft kiss on his mouth. Breathing. The sound of splattering blood through the loudspeakers. People screaming and the monster roaring angrily, wounded, ready for the final battle. The small streak of air between your lips vanishes as Juice kisses you tenderly, his hand placed on your neck, the other petting your thigh. You’re alone with him. The life surrounding you doesn’t matter anymore. In your small bubble is no room for violence, hate or arms. He protects you, you and this bubble you’re living in. No need to see what’s going on outside, not now.  
It’s the tenderness that caught you, the ability for tenderness and patience in this world full of blood and flying guts. You know exactly if this first kisses hadn’t been gentle and wary you would have broken up with him.  
Not even now he pushes; he goes on with this feather light kissing. It’s you who starts a deeper kiss, just in the moment the monster dies a horrible death. You don’t hear the final screams, the music of the credits, not even noticing the lights turning on again.  
“Babe,” Juice whispers on your lips, “We have to go.”  
“Yeah,” you sigh, kissing him one last time before standing up.  
“Wasn’t this bad, huh?” He asks, pointing to the screen.  
“No,” you answer, grabbing your purse and giving him a smile.  
“That’s my brave girl.”  
He takes your hand, leading you to the exit.  
“So,” he says, stopping outside near an ashtray, fumbling a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans. “Speaking of brave girls ...”  
“Yeah?”  
“May I bring you home tonight? Just to know you’re save and maybe to get a good night kiss.”  
You nod and he takes you in his arms, placing a kiss on your head: “Thank you.”  
“Juice?”  
“Yeah, baby?”  
“I can neither be a crow eater nor an old lady.”  
“I know. We’ll figure something out. Something we’re both good with. Okay?”  
You nod again and yeah, you must admit: You feel save.


	4. Traveling plans

“So,” he smiles, “here we are.”  
You’re fumbling the key in the lock, feeling his presence, his warmth in your back. Juice places his hands on your waist, kissing your neck.  
“Juice,” you sigh enjoying the feeling of not being able to think straight anymore.  
“Hm?”  
“You wanna come in with me checking that there a no monsters under my bed, am I right?”  
He doesn’t answer, but his hand leaves your waist and opens the door.  
“Juice?”  
“Hm?”  
“Do I get a proper answer?”  
“Sorry. What did you ask? I’ve lost it after ‘come in me’, I guess.”  
You laugh and poke him softly in his belly: “I’m not that smart-ass of a person but I said ‘come in with me’,” you chuckle, leaning back onto his chest.  
“You want me to come in with you? Jesus, that’s what I hoped for.”  
Seeing his big grin as you look over your shoulder, you laugh and turn around, kissing him and pulling him with you in the hallway. After closing the door behind you, Juice hustles you gently to your bedroom – he’d helped the day you moved in so he knows where the bedroom is – and seats you on the edge of the bed. You look up to him and give him a smile, before leaning your forehead on his belly.  
“I don’t know where this may lead. This ... whatever it is with us,” you state and sigh as he starts massaging your neck.  
“I’ll give you directions. Tell me what you’re searching for and I ... give you directions. I’m like a route guidance system on two legs.”  
“I thought you’re the tin man.”  
“The tin man?” Juice asks, frowning.  
“Yeah. I found you in an old canning factory, remember?”  
“Perfectly. But I already have a heart, Dorothy.”  
“Actually a big one, Angelica.” You give him a grin and he shakes his head, laughing: “Oh, no. No Angelica in the bedroom, please.”  
“Okay. So, which direction right now, tin man?”  
“Depends on what you’re searching.”  
“A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”  
He grins, biting his lower lip: “Okay, then: Horizontal it is, baby.”  
You smile and lay back, pulling him with you. Feeling the weight of a man on top of you is a thing you didn’t know you’ve missed. The chain on his belt rustles with every move and when you grab his ass to pull him nearer you feel his wallet, his cell phone and his gun. Goddamn.  
“Juice ...,” you whisper but he cuts you off: “Yeah, I know. Give me a second to get rid of this stuff.”  
The first thing to do is removing his kutte, followed by his shirt. While he places gun, phone and wallet on your nightstand you open his belt, hearing his approving groan.  
“You’re killing me, Y/N,” he whispers, tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling you gently nearer, your face on his belly.  
You spread a few kisses on his abs, your chin touching the trouser waistband. You’re inhaling his scent deeply, leather, smoke, hints of sweat and arousal, wood, soap. His jeans falls down, he kicks his boots off and steps out of the pile of cloth, removing his socks in the process.  
“Your turn, honey,” he grins, caressing your cheek.  
You give him quite a show, stripping slowly, lasciviously, seductively until you’re kneeling on the bed in your underwear. He rubs over his chest, then pointing on your breasts: “There’s one thing missing.”  
You’re lifting one brow, asking: “Oh, yeah?”  
He smiles, crawls on the bed and reaches behind you. With one flick of his fingers your bra falls open and he strips the straps off your shoulders: “Now we’re even.”  
His gaze sticks at your breasts and he breathes deeply through his mouth. In the next second you’re lying flat on your back, Juice covering your body, his erection perceptible on your thigh.  
Kissing Juice is suddenly becoming the main schedule for the whole evening but in the moment he starts caressing your body, exploring every square inch with his fingers you know that kissing won’t be enough. You’re spreading kisses over his neck, his collarbones and shoulders, working your way to his chest.  
“Direction?” You ask between kisses, drawing circles with your finger around his belly button.  
“North. Come back here. We’ve got plenty of time to head southwards later,” he smiles and you kiss your way back to his mouth. 

Plenty of time later, finally, he’s slowly gliding into you, his gaze locked with yours, his mouth slightly open. You're caressing his cheek, nodding invitingly as he stops.  
“Good?” He asks under his breath und you sigh: “Yes, perfect. Go on, please, Juice!”  
He swallows and tangles his fingers in your hair. The moan you hear is so damn erotic, so pleased and so fucking horny that you not really sure who moaned. In the moment you realize it was your throat the moan came out he’s balls deep in you.  
“Fuck”, he whispers, “oh, fuck.”  
He withdraws, sliding back in, slowly, carefully, gently.  
“Juice, please!”  
“Don’t rush me, babe. Lemme enjoy that tight little pussy of yours,” he grins, fucking you slowly.  
You try to meet him halfway with your hips, but he holds you down, shaking his head.  
“I’m not sure of your qualification as a route guiding system anymore, Juice.”  
“Huh? What?” He stills, giving you a questioning look.  
“Back, forth, back, forth – you don’t seem to have a clue which way to go,” you say, managing to hold at least a lower level of earnestness.  
For a second everything is very silent. And then he laughs, he’s shaking in your arms with silent laughter: “Fuck, woman! You’re killing me! I’m trying my very best to be the perfect lover just to convince you to let me fuck that sweet little pussy every day and you have nothing better to do than to make me laugh.”  
“I’m sorry,” you answer, pouting. “Just go on, I trust you.”  
He chuckles, withdrawing and slams with one hard thrust back into you, making you squeak.  
“This way?”  
“Yeah, please.”  
He grins and gives a shrug: “We’ll head there later. You know, sex and relationships are like a run: The biggest fun is the ride, not the destination.”  
“Okay, I get it. So, let’s start our ride, okay?”  
“Is it gonna be a long ride, Y/N? Or is it just a one night thing?”  
“I hope it is gonna be a very long ride, Juice.”  
He moves slowly and whispers near your ear: “That makes me fucking happy.”


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sad, I'm sorry. But I liked the idea.

The gate to the prison cemetery is surprisingly beautiful. Cemeteries are not your favorite spot for taking pictures. You’re still deep into the beauty of abandoned buildings. But a job is a job and a prison cemetery is one of the desolated and saddest places you can think about. The prison warden guides you in person, telling stories about the men buried here, the lost souls, without families and friends. It’s a small field, you count about 50 graves. But the cemetery is best kept, well-groomed and the neatly stringed grave stones are of a very special beauty. You take pictures of the whole field, before walking through the rows of graves. You read the names on the small gravestones, sober dates of birth and death. No words of love, of remembrance, no sign of anyone beside the prison warden caring about the men buried here. Nonetheless you take your pictures, listening half-heartedly to the monologue of your escort.  
Reaching the last row, the recent deaths, you’re feeling sad for those un-loved men spending most of their lives in prison. You think about the rumors you’ve heard about drug abuse, rape and gang wars inside the walls and you shudder. It’s the last grave in the row that makes your heart stop for a beat. You lower the Nikon, staring disbelieving on the letters.  
  
_“Juan Carlos Ortiz”_  
  
You swallow hard, reading his birthday and the day of death. Three months ago. It’s Juice, beyond doubt. Suddenly you feel the burning of tears in your eyes. Juice is dead and he’s buried here. Since you broke up years ago you’d never see him again. All your memories, joyful, loving memories of two years with Juice assailing your mind, bringing the roof down on your head. He broke up with you because he had no time left; the club had been turned out to be all consuming. You’d heard that he went to prison for over a year, you’d heard about his sudden fondness for drugs, news leaving you shocked, thinking about what he did for and with SAMCRO while you were together. You’d known he was a bad boy, a criminal, but you never wanted to know exactly. The life in your bubble was too comfortable, too perfect to let the truth destroy your dream. And now he’s dead and all this comes on the surface again, the heartache he had left you in, the nights you’ve cried and hated him for what he was and for what he left you. You’d loved him so much even after the moment you were getting aware of that he’d killed some people – most likely. No. That’s not the whole truth: You still love him and he still visits you in your dreams. He visits you when your husband’s standing behind you, kissing your neck, hands on your waist. In these moments you close your eyes, imagining Juice kissing you, touching you. You never got over him and you never will be able to. The tin man has your heart forever and he never gave it back.  
“Are you alright?” The prison warden asks and you nod, swallowing your tears down.  
Not now. Not yet.  
You clear your throat, struggling to maintain your composure: “He was pretty young. What happened to him? Cancer?”  
“No. He was stabbed in the neck and bled to death. Poor guy. I liked him. He made a few wrong turns in his life and finally ended up in a dead end street. He lost his way after a bunch of bad decisions.”  
“Oh my god!” you whisper, tears burning in your eyes again.  
“Yeah, it was tragic. No family. We still have his personal stuff here. We have to wait a year before we’re allowed to dump it. Just for the case someone wants to claim it, that there is family we didn’t know about.”  
“May I see it?” You ask and he gives you a confused look.  
“Why?”  
“Oh, it could be an interesting addition to the cemetery photos. What guys like him leave behind. I would blacken the names on his personal stuff if I decide to use the photos.” You answer like you don’t give a shit about this man who once was your life – he would be so proud of you.  
“Yeah, okay. What about meeting me in half an hour in my office? I’ll get his stuff.”  
“Thank you,” you manage with a smile. 

It’s only a cardboard box and you open it slowly. It contains the clothes he wore on the day he was arrested, two books, a few of his rings, 31 Dollars in his wallet, his driving license and ID card and three photos. The first one shows the club members and a few old ladies sitting on the benches in front of Teller Morrow’s. You recognize them all. Clay, Opie, Bobby, Chibs, Gemma, Half-Sack, Tara, Jax, Tig and Juice. The second picture is a really old one, showing Juice as a child with his mother. You smile at the picture and take the next one, which leaves you breathless.  
It’s a photo of a completely naked woman lying in the morning sun in a bed with white sheets. She lays on her belly, facing in the other direction, so you can’t see her face, just her hair, her back, her ass and the back of her thighs. If you don’t look close you miss the little drips of liquid on her thigh – but you don’t have to look this close, because you know. It’s Juice’s semen on your skin. It’s a picture of you. You remember the day exactly. A Wednesday morning in July six years ago. Waken by his tongue exploring your folds. He’d made love to you, gentle and slow, and he took the photo a few minutes after you were finished. Juice did a few shots but he wasn’t happy with the results. He knelt on the bed, in all his naked glory, asking you for advice and you changed some adjustments so he could take the perfect picture of your naked form. And he did. It’s a very, very good picture, in every aspect. It shows intimacy, love and trust without destroying the bubble, without violating the privacy between two people in love.  
So many years past and you know that you will never ever be so happy like you were on this morning. You place the photo on the table, feeling his pain every time he’d watched it. He carried you and this intimate moment with him for years, until his last breath. He’d never forget you.  
You take a look at the books, one a poetry book by Emily Brontë, which leaves you frowning, because this is nothing Juice would’ve liked, the other one a coffee-table book with your photographs, the first one you’ve ever published – back then under your maiden name. You open it, knowing you’ll see your own handwriting on page 3.  
_“To Juice, my tin man with the biggest heart. Thanks for giving me directions. LUA, Y/N”_  
“I’ve absolutely no idea why he had a coffee-table book about abandoned industrial buildings in his cell. And what LUA means,” the prison warden says, shaking his head.  
“LUA means Love you always,” you whisper, turning to page 23, to the pictures of the old canning factory, watching your tears falling on the pages.


End file.
